


Six Months

by erebones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dead Character, Gen, Ghosts, Halloween, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Spirits, Supernatural - Freeform, all hallow's eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:02:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ghost would be better than nothing, John has often thought. Even the silent type of apparition that passed through closed doors or made the walls bleed and shut off all the lights like an obnoxious wanker. It would be more normal than this empty silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Months

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Callophilia on tumblr for the latest Johnlock Gift Exchange. :3 I may write a reunion when I have time (finals week is coming up ahhhhhh). Ghosty smut may or may not be involved!

“You’re not dead,” John says, rather stupidly. Then, warm and hot, a wave of relief blooms like red algae in the pit of his stomach and sweeps over him, leaving him weak-kneed and uncomfortably damp under his arms. “I knew it, I knew it was a trick. Oh my god, Sherlock.”

He is sitting on the edge of his bed, the barren wasteland inside of him raging with emotion so suddenly it’s a physical pain. A plaster is on his chin from where he fell just a few hours ago, knocked to the asphalt by a cyclist. A hospital bracelet from Bart’s is still on his write. Mild concussion, nothing serious.

On the other side of the room, Sherlock stands suspended in the middle of the doorway. He seems to waver side-to-side, as if he can’t quite support himself, but he keeps well away from the frames. Blood glistens on his cheeks and lips, sort of thin like he tried to wipe it off and failed. One eye is nearly swollen shut and starting to purple prettily.

Then John looks down. There are a perfect two point five inches between the floor and the bottoms of Sherlock’s shoes.

John wakes up.

\---------

It’s never quite dark at night. London produces too much light, like a miniature sun sewn painstakingly into the fabric of the Earth’s crust, and even though morning hasn’t quite arrived, the cracked curtains let in enough light to see by. The room is bare and empty. There is no one in the doorway.

A ghost would be better than nothing, John has often thought. Even the silent type of apparition that passed through closed doors or made the walls bleed and shut off all the lights like an obnoxious wanker. It would be more normal than this empty silence. That’s probably why he dreams about it so often. It’s not usually so gruesome, but at least there were no broken bones this time, and the blood was fairly minimal.

He gets out of bed and makes coffee while he reads yesterday’s paper. He was too busy fuming over his therapy appointment to read it yesterday. Flipping through, he notes the date: October the thirtieth. Today is All Hallow’s Eve. He’s not sure why he thinks of it – it’s been years since he spent that one autumn with his aunt in Scotland, after the summer his parents separated. He was excused from school for a couple of months while legalities were worked out and the children were fought over. Eventually Harry, barely five, was sent to London to live with their father’s parents, and John went to Scotland.

Just thinking about it brings back a rush of memories, like a particular scent will evoke long-gone events. Aunt Meryl was an odd one. She didn’t own any pets, per se, but stray cats gathered around her country cottage like birds flocking to feeders in the dead of winter. Bundles of herbs and onions and hot peppers hung from her rafters, and she knew the exact dates of all the equinoxes and solstices. On a calendar nailed to the wall, she kept careful track of particular days that John had never heard of: Midsummer’s Day, All Hallow’s Eve – the “thin” days, she called them.

Looking out the window, John feels thin. Like he could slip between this world and the next without effort, a leaf all dried and brittle being swept along by the wind. He finishes his tea, throws out the paper, and decides to run some errands.

The things he’s looking for aren’t easily found, but after a lot of poking around in different shops and out-of-the-way markets, he’s got together a small collection of the necessary items: several feathers, a tiny bird’s skull, a few twig clippings from different kinds of trees, and three shiny pieces of amber hardly bigger than grains of rice, polished to a brilliant glow. He hails a cab on Piccadilly and takes it twenty minutes through town to Saint Bonaventure’s Cemetery, where Holmeses have been buried for at least two centuries.

By now it’s reaching dusk. He stops for a sandwich at a small café across the street, picking at the crust before finally giving up and throwing it out. His stomach is too full of nerves to eat. He’s never done this before, only watched his aunt as she drew the proper signs and said the proper words. He has neither signs nor words, but perhaps his need will be great enough. In the end, she always told him, need is all that’s necessary.

At the grave, John gets to his knees in the dirt and makes a quick circle with his rowan twig. He arranges the amber and the sticks at the proper angles with the skull in the center, its beak making an imperfect arrow toward Sherlock’s tombstone. Saying an internal prayer – _Please don’t let me fuck this up –_ he stands, dust falling from his knees, and lets the feathers flutter from his hand while he says, loud and clear:

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Behind him, the sun is sinking. He can see his own shadow, blackening the tombstone and passing down the grassy slope beyond. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and hunkers down to wait.

The shadow remains.

“Looking for someone?”

Very slowly, knee spasming in protest, he gets to his feet and turns. Before him in the air there is a slight wrinkle, a thin space, like heat rising off asphalt in the summer. His throat tightens like a pinhole.

“Didn’t think you’d come.”

The wrinkle flutters, a ghost’s shrug. “I didn’t think you’d ever call.”

“I’m sorry it took me this long.”

Another flutter. “Are you going to complete the incantation?”

“I don’t know it.” Inside him, leaden, his chest constricts. “You’re going to fade, aren’t you.”

“When the hole closes, at sunset.” There are footsteps, too loud and echoing for this grassy knoll, and then a sound like fabric tearing. Sherlock’s voice makes a pained sound, a little mewl that makes John flinch. “I can’t get through.”

He’s starting to panic. He rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans. “What do I do?”

“I don’t _know_.” It clearly irks Sherlock to have to say that.

John licks dry lips, takes a step forward. He can feel the wrinkle against his face, brushing like toothed silk. All the warmth leaves his cheeks, and he can feel ice crystallizing on his lashes and in his nose.

“Don’t! John, you idiot, don’t move another inch.” There is an interminable pause as John watches the sun sink inexorably toward the horizon, listening to Sherlock’s overloud footsteps as he paces. Then, “There’s nothing for it. You’ll have to wait six months.”

“I’ve waited _three years_ , Sherlock! I’m done waiting.”

“No! No, listen to me. Go to your aunt. She’s alive, the gatekeepers here talk about her all the time.”

He’s charmed despite himself. “They do?”

“Precious little else to talk about here. It’s so dull, John, you’ve no idea.”

He sobers. “I’m sorry.”

“Hush, and listen to me. Go to your aunt, learn the proper words. Come back at Midsummer’s Eve.”

John shifts his feet, and Sherlock actually makes a grumpy sound, as if he’s prodded his friend with his toes. “What will… happen?”

“I’m hardly an expert on spiritual travel. You’ll have to ask her.” His annoyance softens. “At least you know you have something to look forward to, now.”

He rubs his face, quick and rough to keep his stinging eyes dry. “I just want to see you.”

“You can’t, I’m sorry.” Sherlock sighed, and a gust of wind stirred against John’s cheek. “Six months. That’s nothing after three years, surely?”

“I guess not.” Behind the wrinkle, the sun is half gone. “Sherlock, listen I need to tell you –”

“No.”

“Sorry?”

“I said no, John.” Another breath, and this time John swore he could smell cigarette smoke. “Save it, please?”

“Why? And how do you know what I was going to say?”

“I know everything, obviously. And I’d rather be able to say the same to you in my own body and my own voice.”

Slowly, John backs away. His face tingles as feeling returns, and he rubs the ice crystals from around his eyes and nose. “Six months, then.”

“Six months.” There is only a sliver of sun left. Warm and faint, the words settle over his shoulders like an old, familiar coat. “Goodbye, John.”


End file.
